


The Expert

by Amarryllis_88



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Gen, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Aramis, Protective Athos, Protective Porthos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22194559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amarryllis_88/pseuds/Amarryllis_88
Summary: D'Artagnan is hurt and Aramis sings to him. That's pretty much it.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 123





	The Expert

**Author's Note:**

> Little thing I wrote for this prompt: https://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/2286.html?thread=3290862#cmt3290862  
> I'm posting here 5 years late... Haha, oh well.

Aramis found him first. He threw open the creaky door of the old stable and froze. He had expected him to be hurt, these criminals were not known for their kindness after all, but he never expected this.

D'Artagnan looked dead. He laid, forgotten, on a dirty pile of hay, some of it covering his body like fresh snow. For two whole dreadful seconds, there was only Aramis, D'Artagnan, the smell of blood and deafening silence. The older musketeer felt his head pound. His vision swayed and he screamed the only two words he knew at the moment.

"Porthos! Athos!"

"You found him?!", Porthos yelled back immediately.

His booming voice seemed to shake the winter cold from Aramis bones. He rushed to D'Artagnan and was dropping to his side when the others barreled through the door. He heard Athos gasp and Porthos swear, but he didn't spare them a glance. He was too occupied trying desperately to find a pulse with still trembling fingers. It was no use and, cursing the useless digits, he brought his face close to the young one's mouth. Aramis nearly let out a sob of relief when he felt a quivering exhale touch his cheek.

"Alive", he announced to his friends who were now hovering with him over their protégé. "Thank God!"

On his right, he heard Athos mutter angrily : "If God cared, he wouldn't have let this happen to him in the first place." It didn't matter. Cursing fate was something the swordsman always did when he didn't know what else to do. Athos had been on bad terms with fate since Aramis first met him.

As the most experienced in medecine, Aramis took charge. He told the others to give him a bit of space and took out his kit. His fingers stilled as soon as he touched it. He cut through his patient clothes and held his breath as he took in all the damage. Torture was written all over D'Artagnan's body in black, blue and red. Aramis began inspect each injury as the others waited.

A black eye. A badly bruised jaw. A cut on his lip. Porthos was pacing relentlessly from them to the open door and back again. He checked on D'Artagnan before glaring at the fresh cadavers of bandits outside in a never ending cycle of intense worry and righteous furry. Knowing him, he probably wished some of their ennemies were still alive so he could kill them again just for something to do.

Burns on the chest. Ribs that were at least cracked. A broken arm. Half of the ring finger on his left hand was missing. Athos was sitting nearby, completely still and guarding them like a sphinx. He was staring at D'Artagnan with a deep frown, as if he could somehow will him to get better with enough concentration. He only broke it a couple of times to look at Aramis' face and read much more from it than he ever could from D'Artagnan's battered body.

A lot more of bruised skin, lacerations on the back and a huge gash on the thigh completed Aramis' diagnostic. A wound made by a sword no doubt. The little one must have put on quite a fight, like always. D'Artagnan was strong and hopelessly hard-headed. He would heal from this. He had to.

"I need to sew this up", Aramis pointed at his thigh, "and set his arm before we even think of bringing him home. Porthos, can you go check the bandits' camp? See if you can find some covers, water and maybe food."

The taller musketeer nodded and strode off with an air off determination, glad to finally have a purpose. Aramis went back to work, cleaning the boy minimally while he sent Athos fetch material for a makeshift splint. The three of them gently moved D'Artagnan unto clean covers when Porthos came back with them. Aramis then proceeded to disinfect the gaping wound and sew it up with practiced confidence. This was the easy, mechanical part. Torn skin and torn clothes became one and the same when you had seen enough of both and learned to follow your fingers, just another thing to fix.

It all changed, however, when D'Artagnan squirmed and let out a pitiful moan. The three men sat straighter, waiting to see if he would wake up.

"D'Artagnan?" Athos called leaning towards the pair. Porthos got up and came back to hover. "Is he waking up? Is he alright?" Ignoring the questions, Aramis left the hand holding the needle on the younger's knee and brought the other up to brush D'Artagnan's hair from his damp forehead.

He was completely unprepared for him to jerk from his touch with a shout and begin to trash about wildly. "D'Artagnan, stop! It's okay, everything's okay! You're free now. It's over!" Aramis put a hand on his shoulder as he said the words, but it only made it worse. The injured man tried to bat his hand away howled as the movement jarred his broken bones. He kicked and fought like a madman threatening to rip out his stitches and aggravate his ribs and back.

"D'Artagnan, look at me! It's Aramis! Look, Athos and Porthos are here too." It was no use. There was no sign of recognition in their protégé's panicked eyes. This couldn't continue any longer. If he further injured himself, Aramis would fear for his life.

Apparently, Athos thought the same because he moved to press D'Artagnan's upper body into the covers, effectively immobilizing it.

"Porthos, hold his legs", he commanded and the taller man just looked at him with wide eyes. « Porthos! » The latter obeyed, visibly uneasy, and muttered : "Why don't we leave him be for a bit? Y'know, let him calm down?"

"Because we can't let him take off with half-done stitches and a broken arm dangling around. He has already harmed himself enough", their unofficial leader replied firmly. Porthos then turned to Aramis for confirmation. "He's right."

Porthos glanced at D'Artagnan with a frown. "Well, I still don't like it." Aramis followed his gaze to the youngest who was still fighting and wailing like a trapped animal. He sighed placed a reassuring hand on Porthos back. "You and me both, my friend." He then turned his full attention to his patient, trying again and failing to get through to him.

"I need to finish stitching you up. It won't be long." His needle pierced tan skin again and he refused to stop, steeling himself when D'Artagnan began to sob. "It's ok. It will be over soon." Aramis didn't know why he even bothered. It was obvious the young man didn't catch a word of what he was saying. Still, he found himself talking anyway as he tied the knot on his needlework. "Almost done. Stay strong just for a little bit longer, alright?"

"...ease. No, no, no... Don't. Please..." D'Artagnan's voice was so quiet Aramis wasn't sure he heard it until he lifted his head and saw Athos' face. He had lost pretty much all colour and set his jaw, his mouth a grim line on his face.  
"God! Aramis, do something! I can't look at him like that." Porthos pleaded and when Aramis turned to him, he looked on the verge of tears.

"Do what?", Aramis replied.

"I don't know! You're the expert on these things."

"Allow me to remind you, Porthos, that my expertise only extends to troubles of the body. I don't fix minds!"

"Try!"

Aramis took a deep breath and tried the only thing he could think off. He sang. It was a lullaby, something his mother used to sing to him. He heard Athos scoff humorlessly beside him, probably thinking about just how desperate they were to resolve to children songs. Then, much to everyone surprise, D'Artagnan seemed to calm down. He appeared to be listening so Aramis continued and finished dressing the wound. By the end of the third song, D'Artagnan had stopped trashing completely and was only crying.

Porthos let out a relieved laugh. "See? I knew you were the expert."

They set the broken arm in a stint and Aramis never stopped singing, not for a second. D'Artagnan relaxed gradually. His breathing first, it slowed from erratic to normal, then his muscles. When Athos and Porthos let him go, he rolled on his side and clutched his arm agaisnt his body but he stayed in place. Aramis still sang. He strung nursery rhyme after nursery rhyme, sitting besides D'Artagnan's head with his back to the wall.

When he finally stopped, he had no idea how much time had passed. His voice was hoarse, Porthos kept watch outside, Athos slumbered wih his flask in hand and D'Artagnan had found peace in Morpheus' embrace. Aramis closed his eyes too and relaxed against the wall. He would've fallen asleep on the spot if an arm hadn't circled his waist.

"Thank you", D'Artagnan murmured from his hip were he has pressed his forehead. Aramis shuffled his hair affectionately.

"Anytime, whelp."


End file.
